


A Cold, Still Depth

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s03e17 Silverfinger, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:41:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon





	A Cold, Still Depth

Derek freezes the moment he sees Stiles walk into the loft.

"Hey, dude," Stiles says. "Long time no … " He waggles his hand. "Place looks better than the last time I saw it. Nice job getting off the paint."

Derek says nothing, but his gaze darts toward Scott and back.

"Sorry about that, by the way. The party. I mean, not that I had anything to do with it, except for being here, but … " Stiles lets the sentence trail off into nothing, looks over at Scott, who seems to be trying to understand something Derek’s communicating with his eyebrows. "We’re ditching school, it’s okay. Scott’s mom’s on it." Derek doesn’t respond. "Gave him a ride home from the hospital since he rode in the ambulance … he said we should come here because … . okay, what is with the two of you?”

Scott looks at him, wide-eyed and confused.

"You feeling okay?" Derek asks

"Me?" Stiles turns around to look what’s behind him, as if there might be something that can explain Derek. If so, he thinks, he probably should’ve been looking behind him for years. "Fine. He’s the one with a dad in hospital.”

"You weren’t fine earlier," says Scott, apologetically.

"I was tired," Stiles sighs, shaking his head. "Your mom hooked me up with the good drugs, I feel 900% better than I did."

Derek takes one slow step closer. “Scott said you’d had insomnia.”

"Yeah." Stiles waits for the punchline. "And?"

"You blackout?"

"Sometimes. You’re diagnosing me?"

Derek beckons Scott closer. “I can see it.”

Scott looks bemused, then horrified, and turns his head very slowly toward Stiles.

Derek takes another step. “His aura. It’s black.”

"And that’s not … "

"It’s usually … different," says Derek, swallowing as if the word is hard to say.

"My aura?" Stiles asks, incredulously. "Seriously, man. My aura?"

"Stiles." Scott turns and takes a step back toward Derek. "You’re sure you feel okay?"

"I’m fine,” Stiles insists, which is when a familiar pain runs from the base of his spine deep into his skull and he feels himself pitch and wither, sound deadening in his ears, his sight dimming. He’s vaguely aware that Derek has shifted, that he’s placed his body between Stiles and Scott, but it’s an unreal knowing, like news he heard years ago and can barely bring to mind. He feels cold, has the slimmest sense that he’s felt this before, and he struggles, bucks and kicks against the stifling, dead feeling that’s creeping over him, but everything he does is insubstantial, a flicker of interference, dwarfed by some larger power.

"… Nemeton … "

"A darkness … "

“Stiles – “

He’s tired again, bone tired, the tired that has him seeing things and sleep-walking and forgetting where he’s been, but this time the tiredness is outside him, wrapping him up, swaddling him in numbness, a deeper and deeper cold. Stiles tries to shake the awful weight of it away, but it’s heavy, so heavy, and if he could just sleep …

"… don’t hurt him … "

“Stiles.”

Stiles hears them, both of them, voices distorted by teeth and something that could be fear. He tries to speak, feels fingers around his throat, icy, choking him, and he scrabbles to pull or push or tear at whatever holds him by the neck.

"Fight, Stiles. Fight it.”

He jerks, but it’s not at his command. He shivers, as though something essential is leaving him.

“Fight it.”

"Derek – "

Stiles hears them, and he wants to reach them, because he can’t leave Scott, not alone, and he can’t be another loss for Derek to set beside the others, there are things he wants to say, wants to do, godamnit, he isn’t done. And he’s swearing to himself, and perhaps the edges of his vision clear, and maybe there’s warmth at the palms of his hands and –

"Stiles, I swear to god – "

Derek sounds as though he’s breaking – voice rough, shattered glass, sharp, dangerous, and Stiles can hear him, closer now. He fists his hands, digs deep for something clean and bright and whole, cries out when he feels the cold begin to lift, the whole world too bright, too warm –

"That’s it, c’mon … "

And he falls, crumpling, and the his cheek splits as he hits the floor, and he moans, curling in on himself, hands spasming in shock.

"You’re okay," says Derek, and he’s kneeling beside him, hands restlessly moving over his body, his shoulders, his stomach, his face. "You’re okay."

"You sound … relieved," says Stiles, trying to joke, wincing as Scott comes into view.

Scott kneels – sets a hand on Derek’s shoulder, another on Stiles’ shin. “Yeah,” he breathes, and he’s pale and shaken.

Derek drops his head to press his forehead to Stiles’. “You won,” he says, and that makes no sense, all he did was drive Scott over from the hospital, why such a stupid fuss?

"Yay me," Stiles mumbles, and fumbles a hand to wrap around Derek’s wrist, holds on tight as the world ceases to spin.


End file.
